She could laugh at that now, at her prickly former self. Accepting this sort of protection from a man like him—an instinctive protection offered with no thought of recompense—was no weakness.
Indeed, she was starting to view partnership as a strength.
And heaven knew she’d always been attracted to strength.
It was a quality he had in abundance—not just physical strength, not just mental acuity, but that inner strength that defined the true mettle of a man.
“This sight,” he said, his voice low but clear, “embodies my life. My home, my estate, my responsibilities. My future.” He paused, then went on, “I know we only met days ago, but I wanted to show you this…and ask you not to leave. I wanted to beg you to come and live with me here, through peace and prosperity and whatever else comes.”
“And are you? Asking me? Begging me?”
“Yes.”
She found she couldn’t breathe, then his hands shifted at her waist, and she turned within his arms to face him.
To look into his face, the planes sharp and defined, chiseled by an artist’s hand.
To fall into his eyes, shadowed though they were, into the depths that tempted and held her.
To understand that he spoke from the heart when he said, “Marry me, Constance, and stay.”
She felt as if her heart leapt—reaching for him, for the future he offered. Challenges there would be, but there was no question in her mind or her soul that this was what she wanted. What she had always craved.
“Yes.” The word fell from her lips.
Her gaze locked with his, she could think of no more she needed to say; the magnitude of what he had so simply proposed and she had, equally simply, accepted lay manifestly clear between them. They weren’t the sort of people to broach such matters lightly, on a whim.
All of that passed between them, borne on the near-tangible link of their gazes.
Then his lips lightly curved, and he bent his head, and she stretched up, just an inch, and their lips met.
Fused as they kissed; now they no longer needed to exercise restraint, the kiss burgeoned and deepened, and desire flowered.
It was she who stepped closer and pressed her body to his, then his arms tightened, and he crushed her to him. Her senses sang as their tongues tangled, as he explored and she welcomed, and the kiss spun on.
When they eventually drew back, their lips parting by the merest fraction—hungry still—they were both breathing rapidly.
He touched his forehead to hers. “Come to the manor.” The words whispered over her lips, then he took them again, confident, assured, demanding, yet not overwhelming. “Come and be my lady, tonight and forevermore.”
She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she framed his face and replied with a kiss laden with her own brand of passion.
Eventually, they drew apart and, with their senses alive and their bodies thrumming, walked hand in hand through the moon-dappled darkness of the wood to the house on the rise—to Carradale Manor. They approached from the stable; the house lay slumbering, wrapped in peace, as they walked around it to the front door. He opened it with his latchkey and drew her inside.
He led her up the stairs and around the gallery to the room above the front door.
He bowed her in, and with a smile, she walked into the room. She halted four paces inside, in the middle of a space before a set of windows flanking a French door that gave onto the semicircular balcony above the front porch, and took stock. A luxuriously large bed lay to her right, while to her left, two armchairs sat angled before a huge fireplace. Minor doors flanked the fireplace; she assumed they would lead to a bathing chamber and a dressing room.
She turned to him as, having followed her inside and closed the door, he joined her.
Whether he drew her into his arms or she went to him was moot. The hunger they’d incited in the depths of the wood had simmered, swelled, and grown; it invested their kiss, turning it demanding, commanding—driving them on.
Hunger deepened to need and infused each caress, prickling their skins, turning each touch increasingly urgent. Spreading through their veins, that heated desire lured, captured, and whipped them on.
Her gown slid to the floor on a susurrating sigh. His coat, cravat, and waistcoat followed. Her petticoats and his shirt.
His hands closed about her heavy breasts, still shielded by the silk of her chemise. She moaned as his fingers, strong and sure, closed, massaging, then framing the aching peaks, and he uttered a guttural growl.
She’d thought she’d known what lovemaking was—what it entailed, what it felt like. He opened her eyes.
